They all used to say that Alice was deaf since she was a little girl. They said it with such certainty, as if repeating it often enough made it fact. In our village, those words werent just gossip; they were a verdict: she doesnt hear, she doesnt understand, she doesnt matter. To most, Alice was less a person and more a burden to be shuffled around.
And her aunt Margaret was always keen to remind everyone of that.
That morning, the cold nipped at your bones without a word of warning. The sky sagged low and grey, threatening snow. Margaret dragged Alice out to the village green where the traders were just setting out their stalls and the farmers haggled as though hardship was ingrained in the earth itself.
Margaret planted herself amid all the bustle and raised her voice:
Who needs a capable young lady for work? She doesnt eat much, she doesnt complain, and youll never hear her chattering your ears off!
All eyes turned to Alice. She dropped her head, clutched her worn-out shawl, and stood very still, already familiar with the charade: the display, the scoffing, the invisible sign she wore around her neck.
Shes deaf, Margaret insisted, pointing at Alice. Has been since she was a tot. But shes useful can wash, cook, clean. And best of all doesnt talk back.
The laughter rang out sharp, cold.
Alice didnt flinch. Shed learned early on that silence was her only shield. Inside, though, every word struck home, sharp as a blade.
Because Alice really could hear.
Shed never been deaf in all her life.
When her parents died, Margaret had whisked her off to the village doctor. Alice could still recall it clear as day the sting of the alcohol, the doctors calm assurance that the fever had left her ears unscathed. But no sooner had they left, Margaret gripped her arm and hissed in her ear: If you ever speak, no one will ever want you. Thats in both our best interests.
So Alice kept quiet.
First from fear.
Then from habit.
And, finally, because silence kept her safe.
Then along came Peter.
Peter had turned up in our village for seeds and tools. He was a quiet fellow, known for his farm on the outskirts and his aversion to gossip. Some respected him; others regarded him with suspicion. Hed lived alone for years, loss having taken both family and his appetite for small talk.
He was tying sacks of grain when he heard Margarets announcement.
He glanced over.
Saw Margaret, face twisted with disdain.
Saw the girl shrunk in on herself, surrounded by gawking faces.
And inside, something stirred.
Not pity.
Anger.
How much? Peter asked, stepping forward.
Margaret blinked, then flashed a tight smile.
Fifty pounds.
Twenty.
Thirty-five. Ive raised her myself since her folks passed.
Peter counted out twenty-five pounds and held them out.
This, or nothing.
Margaret hesitated a second, then snatched up the money.
Done. But dont expect sympathy. Shes deaf.
Peter didnt bother to answer.
He looked at Alice and gave a gentle nod.
For the first time, Alice glanced up.
And stopped in her tracks.
Because, in Peters gaze, there was no mockery, no pity. There was something she hadnt felt in a long while: respect. A silent, steady message I see you.
Up in the cart, Peter draped a heavy blanket over her shoulders. As they rolled away, Alice looked back to see Margaret counting her cash, not so much as waving goodbye.
Along the road, snow began to fall. Peter steered in quiet. Alice stole glances at him, listening to his even breathing, the creak of wood, the wind picking up.
At the farm, the fire snapped in the hearth and the soup was hot.
Peter gestured to a chair.
Youre safe here, he said, with no inkling she could understand every word.
Something caught at Alices chest.
That evening, as they ate in silence, Peter spoke at last.
Youve no reason to be afraid. I wont force you to do anything. If youd rather leave in the morning, Ill take you back to the village myself.
Alice stared at her plate.
And, for the first time in years, found her voice.
Thank you.
The single word fell into the quiet like a thunderclap.
Peters eyes widened.
…Pardon?
Alice swallowed, hands shaking.
Im not deaf, she whispered. I never have been.
The silence pressed in.
Peter didnt shout or scold. He simply watched her for a while.
How long have you been able to hear? he asked eventually.
All my life.
And she told him everything the threats, the fear, the long years of humiliation.
When she finished, she braced for anger.
But Peter only stood, poked at the fire, and said, Then lets do this right. No one will silence you here.
Days slipped by. Alice worked on the farm, but Peter never treated her as his property. He taught her to read better, keep accounts, and trade at market.
Word soon went round the village.
And then Margaret came calling.
Ive come to collect her, she demanded. She deceived me. She was never deaf!
Peter met her gaze, calm as anything.
I know. And now plenty of others do, too.
Behind him stood the constable. The doctor. And two traders whod seen and heard for themselves.
Alice stepped forward.
I can speak for myself now, she said, her voice clear and even.
Margaret blanched.
The hearing was brief.
The mistreatment, proven.
The threats, exposed.
Margaret lost all claim to Alice. And lost face, as well.
Months on, the farm thrived. Alice held her head high. At market, people listened, and when she spoke, all fell hush.
One evening, Peter watched her as the sun dipped low.
I never bought you, he said. I chose you.
Alice smiled softly.
And I chose to stay.
Years later, in that very same village, someone would remark, You know, that girl they all claimed was deaf she always heard better than anyone.
And for the first time, the story brought only pride.
Reflecting on it now, I realise that seeing someone for who they truly are and giving them a voice is worth much more than gold.
